Stuck in the Truck
by Chocolate Usagi
Summary: Episode tag for 4.02, "Good Cop." Things could have gone badly very quickly. Rated for a little language and a lot of Spike abuse.
1. Chapter 1

Stuck in the Truck

Okay, here's my first foray in "Flashpoint" fanfiction. I love Spike, and I love seeing him all whumped up so then this happened.

This one is a tag for 4.02, "Good Cop," where Spike was mobbed and attacked by protesters while in the truck. Things could have gone badly very quickly.

Some dialogue is taken directly from the episode, but some is tweaked a bit. I own next to nothing. Please enjoy.

[...]

"The protesters are swarming the truck. I need backup."

Spike's voice was calm and even. Panicking would have been too easy. The truck was now rocking violently as the mob tilted it with all their strength on either side.

"Copy that," came Sam's reply through Spike's earpiece. "Spike, we're on our way. Don't open the doors."

Someone began pounding on the driver's side door, drawing Spike's attention to it. He showed no fear, knowing it would only fuel their anger toward law enforcement officials.

"Keeping the doors closed," he responded coolly. "Goin' with that."

"Spike, we're having trouble getting through this crowd. Can you get to your gun?" Wordy asked him. He could barely see through the crowd to the truck. It looked like it was close to tipping over.

"Negative," Spike answered. "It's in the back. I can't get to it right now."

Wordy cursed silently. "Okay. Okay, just hold on. We're coming."

Spike turned again when he heard a louder hammering on the passenger's side window. There was a man standing there with a baseball bat.

"Guys?" he called out. "Gettin' to feel like 'A Hard Day's Night' in here."

"Sam, Wordy, get over there. Now," Greg directed over the comm.

"Boss, we're trying," Sam said. "There's just so many people."

Suddenly the passenger's side window came crashing in. Spike cried out in pain as shards of glass cut his face.

"Spike!" Sam called out.

"Spike, you okay?" asked Wordy.

Before Spike could answer his teammates he felt something hit his arm, then roll off onto the passenger seat. He barely had time to register what it was before calling out, "BOMB!" The explosion followed immediately, rocking the truck.

The whole team held their ears painfully as feedback screeched through their earpieces. Sam and Wordy could see the flash of light from the bomb going off, then watched as smoke began billowing out through the windows.

"Spike!" Sam cried helplessly. It concerned him greatly that his friend hadn't verbally signaled that he was all right. It concerned him even more that he couldn't even hear Spike coughing through his earpiece. He trudged through the crowd with even more determination, Wordy close behind him.

Spike came to a moment later. The first thing he became aware of was that he couldn't breathe. He gagged as his lungs filled with smoke. His sight returned to him as the darkness around his mind faded away, but he couldn't see anything through the thick smoke. Finally his hearing returned. He could tell his eardrums had ruptured, but he could hear several voices calling his name through his earpiece.

Spike tried to respond, tried to let his friends know that he was all right - that he was alive - but his lungs were so full of smoke and he couldn't get any fresh air.

It registered in Spike's mind that something was wrong. In his addled state he hadn't realized hands were grabbing at him through the window. He felt like he was being pulled from all sides, and eventually figured out he was being dragged out the driver's window. Spike's first thought was that it was his teammates, having finally made it through the crowd, coming to get him out of there. But then he felt how roughly they were jerking his body, and how many of them there were.

Kicking and struggling ferociously, still choking on smoke, Spike tried to get away from the offending hands. However, he was beginning to get dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and there were just too many of them.

With an audible thud, Spike's body connected with the hard concrete of the ground as he was pulled free from the truck. His body shook as his lungs sucked in the clean air.

Then, however, the air was all forced out of his body before he really got the chance to enjoy it as a heavy, steel toed boot swung into his stomach. Spike grunted and instinctively curled in on himself. Another kick landed squarely in his chest, then another from the opposite direction made contact with his back. Suddenly a whole crowd of people was standing over the officer, raining blows and kicks down on his body. After a few kicks to the back of his skull Spike managed to pull both his arms up and wrap them around his head in hopes of protecting it.

The team was horrified with what they were hearing through their earpieces. At first they were relieved to hear Spike begin to cough - he was alive. Then they heard struggling. Sam and Wordy informed them that he was being forcibly dragged through the broken window of the truck. Then they heard the painful grunts and strained groans, the cause of which was undeniable.

"They're beating him," Sam reported, dazedly.

"God," whispered Wordy. He could just barely see the growing crowd surrounding the young man. "They're not gonna stop. They're gonna kill him."

"No," Greg replied. "No, no, no, get to him! Do what you have to do!"

"Boss, we need the okay to use force," said Sam, a pleading tension in his voice.

Greg only considered the request for a moment before responding, "Do whatever you have to do. Get him out of there." He would deal with the repercussions later.

Without hesitating for another moment Sam drew his issued sidearm and fired off two shots into the air. The crowd immediately surrounding Sam and Wordy dispersed, but few encircled around Spike were frightened off so easily.

"Come on, let's go!" Wordy shouted as he charged forward, determined to rescue his friend.

Spike was trying his best to stay conscious. He knew if he allowed himself to give in things would end much worse for him. Suddenly he felt his arms being pulled away from his head. He struggled to keep them there to protect himself, but he just wasn't strong enough. Then he felt a burning sensation on his face. His eyes watered, the cuts on his face from the broken in windows burned, and his already labored breathing became even more ragged.

'_Mace,'_ he concluded without thinking. He remembered what it felt like. His TO Mac had maced all of the recruits as part of their training in the academy. Tasered them, too. Spike would never forget what that felt like.

After a sickeningly long moment Spike realized this was probably his own standard issue mace being used against him. And if they had gotten hold of his mace, they probably had his knife and Taser as well.

And it wouldn't take long for them to find his gun locked away in the back of the truck.

Before he could think about it any longer, something hard was brought down on his left arm. Crying out in pain as loud as he could with no air in his lungs, Spike forced his burning, bleary eyes open long enough to see the same man wielding the baseball bat that had broken in the window of the truck.

Again he swung it down, hitting nearly the exact same spot on Spike's arm. Spike knew without a doubt it was broken, an open fracture from the feel, though due to adrenaline it was mostly numb.

The last things Spike remembered before blacking out were somehow sensing that the crowd around him was dispersing, and then something slamming into his face, then the back of his head.

[...]

Okie-dokie! There's a short chapter one. I have a bit of the story written, so if I get a response I'll post more. Thanks so much for reading. I'd love a review!


	2. Chapter 2

Howdy! First, let me say thank you to everyone who read chapter one, and a special big-time thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, and especially took the time to review. It really does make a difference.

Without much more preamble, here's chapter two. It's a bit longer. I really hope you guys enjoy!

[…]

By the time Wordy and Sam made it through to Spike most of the mob had seen them and taken off. Only a few remained. One was viciously kicking his back and head and another was hitting him with a baseball bat. Spike was not moving.

Sam pushed past the last few people as he reached Spike. He began instinctively searching for a pulse. The man with that bat had just swung it high above his own head in preparation to strike the fallen bomb technician again, but Wordy lashed out and grabbed the bat mid-swing. Surprised, the protester spun around and found himself face-to-face with the large SRU officer. Rearing back, Wordy let a powerful punch fly, making direct contact with the man's jaw. He fell to the ground hard, out cold. The rest of the stragglers took off. Wordy knelt down beside Sam and seemed almost afraid to touch Spike, as if he would break his already damaged body.

"All right, Boss, we've got Spike. He looks…bad," Wordy said.

Sam looked at Wordy, terror in his eyes, and screamed, "He's not breathing!"

"Okay. We'll do CPR," Wordy suggested, fighting to keep his voice calm and even.

"No, get outta there first," Greg ordered. "There's still armed subjects down there."

Wordy and Sam exchanged looks before Wordy scooped Spike up in his arms and the two retreated to the safety of the building with Sam covering Wordy's back. Once inside Wordy laid Spike out on the ground of the foyer and Sam began stripping him of his heavy jacket and Kevlar vest.

"I'll go get some oxygen," Wordy offered to Sam as the younger man worked on ridding Spike of the restricting materials.

"Good idea." Sam had finally gotten the clothes off Spike and checked his breathing. Confirming that he still wasn't breathing on his own, Sam administered a few chest compressions before leaning down to perform mouth-to-mouth. However, the instant his lips touched Spike's, Sam recoiled. His lips tingled and they burned painfully. It was only at that moment he noticed the red, irritated state of Spike's face that had nothing to do with a physical beating. "Wordy, we'll need water, too. He's been maced."

"Copy," Wordy responded, out of breath from running.

Pushing past the pain of the burning sensation in his lips Sam continued on breathing air into Spike's mouth. "Come on, Spike…" he muttered while pressing down on his chest. He felt his pulse quicken when he received no response from the man. "Come on…! Damn it, Spike, don't you do this!"

It was a terrifying, brutal, ineffective pattern. Sam forced more air into Spike's lungs and still nothing changed. He desperately pumped Spike's chest before breathing into his bloody lips again. He sat up again and pressed on his chest. He felt something give under his hands and knew he had broken his friend's ribs, but he couldn't care less. That just meant he was doing it right.

"Sam…" came Greg's heavy voice over Sam's earpiece.

"No, Boss!" he retaliated. "It can't happen. Not after Lou! Not like this! Come on! Come on, damn it!"

Sam desperately breathed into Spike's mouth one more time and from beneath him he felt the man's body spasm. He jumped up abruptly as Spike came back. Spike's entire body wracked and shook with coughs as he tried to breathe.

And it was the greatest sound Sam had ever heard.

Spike struggled against Sam's grasp, trying to sit up. Sam pushed him back, hoping to calm him by saying, "Spike, it's me! It's Sam! You're safe now! Spike, it's Sam! I got you! I got you."

Eventually the words of his teammate broke through the thick haze surrounding Spike's head. He gazed up with bleary eyes at Sam and tried to speak, throat hoarse and abused from smoke inhalation and mace. "S-Sam…?" he struggled, gagging on the words. He fell into another bad coughing fit and gasped for air before lurching to the side opposite Sam and vomiting on the floor.

And oh god Sam almost lost it right then because there was blood in Spike's vomit and he knew what that meant and it would have been so easy to just give up and panic - but then he felt Spike's weak, trembling grasp on his sleeve and he knew that his friend needed him to be strong right now and that took the edge off his nerve and brought his focus back down to Earth.

Sam, to his credit, just swallowed and rubbed Spike's back, mindful of his various injuries. "It's okay," he murmured soothingly. "Just breathe, okay, Spike? Just focus on that. Try to slow it down."

Spike nodded rapidly and tried to do as Sam instructed but he just couldn't get a decent breath in. He felt like he was suffocating.

Luckily, Wordy turned the corner at that exact moment juggling several bottles of water and an oxygen mask. Ed, Jules, and the Sarge were right behind him. Winnie had called in Team Three to cover the rest of the transport so that Team One could be with Spike.

Sam adjusted his position so he was kneeling on his knees behind Spike, cradling the bomb tech's head in his lap. Wordy crouched down by Spike's side and strapped the oxygen mask over his face and began inflating it slowly.

Finally Spike could breathe again. The fresh air had the sweetest taste to him and even though his throat was raw and his lungs ached, he took it in deeply, greedily.

Wordy unscrewed the first bottle of water and slowly poured it over Spike's face, flushing out the mace. When Spike brought up his right hand to try to rub at his irritated eyes, Sam swatted it away, saying, "You'll only make it worse, you know that. Let the water do its job. Just breathe."

It wasn't until he felt like he could breathe halfway normally again that Spike began to feel the pain radiating through his body. It seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. He hadn't noticed it when he was gasping for air, but now there were no such distractions.

He knew his left arm was badly broken; he could feel the bone protruding from the skin. He recognized the sickening sensation of broken ribs. He also knew he had some type of head wound, and he could feel the blood running down his face from the broken glass.

But he was alive. And that was better than nothing.

After a few more long, agonizing minutes the paramedics showed up escorted by the heavily armed Team Three, and Team One stepped back to give them room to work. They strapped Spike to a backboard and placed a c-collar around his neck before loading him up. It was understood without needing to be said that Greg would ride with him to the hospital, and the remaining four SRU members followed closely in the SUVs, lights flashing the whole way.

When they arrived at the hospital Spike was immediately taken to emergency surgery. His arm had to be reset and there was a strong possibility of internal bleeding, Greg reported, having heard bits of the paramedics' conversation in the ambulance. The team hunkered down for a long, tense wait.

Ed looked at the shocked remains of his team. He felt strange sitting with them in his street clothes. He felt separated. "Wordy, Sam. You guys okay? No harm?" he asked.

"No, Ed," Wordy replied, not looking up from the floor but shaking his head. "No harm." He was suddenly exhausted, hunched over in his seat with his elbows resting on his kneepads. Never before had he really felt his age working this job until today.

"No harm," Sam echoed. Unlike Wordy, Sam was leaned back in his chair, slouching, with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs spread out before him. Jules, who was sitting next to Sam on the edge of his seat, patted his knee in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.

Ed only nodded at the responses before looking at Greg. The sergeant took a moment to consider each officer carefully before inching forward in his seat and saying, "You all did a fine job out there today - a _damn _fine job. You saved Spike's life. I'm proud of every single one of you."

Jules nodded her head and smiled grimly at her boss. Wordy, although it was difficult, knew that he couldn't blame himself for what had happened to his friend. After a moment his gaze rose to meet that of Greg's, and he gave his sergeant a look of understanding.

Sam, however, looked between all three of them, to Spike's blood on Wordy's uniform, to Ed in his plain clothes, to Jules's hand that still rested lightly on his knee. He pushed her hand off him roughly - too roughly, he would realize later - before rising to his feet and rushing to leave the waiting room. For a dazed moment no one said anything. No one moved, no one breathed.

Greg moved to stand, but Ed put out a hand to stop him. "I'll talk to him, Greg. I think I know where he's coming from." Greg nodded his consent, and Ed followed Sam out into the hallway.

Ed found Sam steaming in the hall. The few other people who were out there were standing far away, watching the officer pace furiously. Sam saw Ed heading toward him and promptly ignored him.

"Sam-" Ed began. He was stopped short when Sam whirled around to confront him, his face flushed red with anger.

"Don't, Ed," Sam warned darkly, his voice low and nearly trembling. "Not now." When neither man moved, Sam continued. "You know, most of the time, when people leave a room it's because they want to be alone."

"I can't do that, Sam," Ed responded coolly. "You know that. Not when you're blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault."

Sam took a few steps back and looked up toward the ceiling, his hands running up to grip his sweaty blond hair. He allowed himself a strained chuckle.

"We won't let you do this to yourself," continued Ed. "And when he wakes up, Spike won't either-"

"I sent him out there, Ed!" Sam suddenly exploded so abruptly that Ed physically started and actually took a small step away from the younger man. "I finally get to be team leader and I nearly get one of my teammates killed!"

"Sam-"

"No, Ed! You can't string together a bunch of pretty words and change my mind about this one. I did this. Spike was only there because I put him there - it's on me! He was all alone, no backup, and that was my decision, Ed!"

"Yeah, and it was the right decision, Sam. I would have done the same thing." Ed edged closer to Sam and planted a finger on the man's chest, emphasizing his words. He was getting heated now. "We all know Spike is the best defensive driver on this team. He's the only one who's been certified in tactical driving - he's the obvious choice for a getaway." Sam turned his eyes down, considering, and Ed knew he was starting to get through to him. He lowered his voice and went on. "Sam, what happened out there today would have happened no matter who was stuck in the truck. What, do you think it would have been better if it were you? Is that what this is about? What if it had been Wordy? Would that be better?" Ed paused. "Sam, what if it had been Jules?"

The thought stopped Sam in his tracks. He stepped back a bit away from Ed, putting some distance between the two, before allowing himself to lean against the wall and slide down.

Ed let Sam simmer for a moment before joining him on the floor. He was pleased to note that the bystanders in the hall had since left. Ed watched Sam carefully out the corner of his eye. The younger man had his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the wall with his knees propped up in front of him. His breathing was quick and heavy.

After a long silence Ed spoke again. "I would have done the same thing, Sam," he said again in a more gentle, hushed voice.

Sam nodded stiffly before opening his eyes, still not looking at Ed. "I know," he said, he voice cracking slightly. "I just-" Sam cut himself off. He couldn't seem to find the words to put to the situation. "You didn't see him up close," he eventually settled on. Finally, Sam looked at Ed. His eyes were so full of insecurity and vulnerability and - god - downright terror that Ed almost had to look away. "You didn't see how bad it really was," Sam continued. "I have never - never - seen Spike helpless. At all. I mean, he always bounces back. It was like he was just…broken."

And the look Sam was giving Ed was just so pathetic that Ed put an arm around the younger man and pulled him close for just a second. "I know," Ed told him. "I know. He's your friend, and it hurt to see him that way. I get it."

The two sat like that for a long while. The tears that fell silently from Sam's eyes were a natural progression and neither acknowledged them. If anyone ever came through the hallway neither noticed, but if anyone did, they would have seen a grieving officer being comforted by his friend, put two and two together, and immediately went back the way they came so as not to disturb the pair.

At some point Sam's tears dried and he sat forward, disentangling himself from Ed. The two stood up and Sam gave Ed a meaningful, knowing look and that was all the exchange that was needed for Ed to know that yes, Sam understood now.

They assumed quite some time had passed by the time they had returned to the waiting room because Jules was asleep in her chair, Wordy was across the room on his phone, and Greg was nowhere to be seen. Their corner of the waiting room was littered with paper coffee cups.

Wordy nodded at the two, finished up his conversation, and headed over.

"That was Shell. I was just asking her to kiss the girls goodnight for me," explained Wordy as he stuffed his Blackberry back into his pocket. "And you're welcome - she said she'd call Sophie for you and explain everything."

Ed nodded and gave a tight smile as he sat down, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Where's Sarge?" Sam asked, looking around the waiting room. There were several other families, but no sign of Greg.

"Holleran showed up a little bit ago after the call was complete. Went off without anymore hitches," Wordy responded. "We got you guys coffee but that was like, an hour ago. I wouldn't drink it. The stuff they got here is bad enough hot, I'd hate to try it cold."

"So no word on Spike yet?" Ed asked.

Wordy looked down briefly and shook his head. "No. Nothing yet."

The three officers settled into chairs once again. Not long after that, Greg and Commander Holleran came around the corner. In his hands Greg carried a tray with piping hot cups from Tim's.

"Fellas," Holleran greeted. Wordy rose to his feet to help Greg unload the coffee.

"Sarge, you're the best," he crooned, taking the lid off one and blowing on the hot liquid. He took a long sip and relished the flavor.

"Yeah, well, you guys deserve better than mud water with cream in it," Greg said, shrugging, as he distributed the rest of the Styrofoam cups.

At the smell of coffee, Jules awakened and raised her head slowly. "Hey," she said in a thick voice, blinking her eyes open. "Someone bought a round of karma."

That earned her a laugh from her teammates and a pat on the shoulder from Ed.

"I was just telling Greg that the team can have the rest of the week off, all things considered," Holleran informed them as he took a seat. "I understand how tough this probably is for all of you."

Indeed, he did know. Even though Holleran didn't work with Spike on a daily basis like all of Team One did, he knew the technician well enough to know that he liked him; he had always liked Spike.

It would have been very easy for Spike to start off on a sour note. He was replacing Team One's bomb tech Shakes, who had been with the SRU for nearly fifteen years by the time of his retirement. Shakes was also a close personal friend of Holleran's since the two served on the police force together.

When it came time to find someone to replace him, Shakes threw out the name Scarlatti, a promising young technician who served on the Special Support Unit with the Explosives Disposal and Technology Section in Toronto. Shakes had met the kid - "Spike," as fellow officers called him - a few times and had only good things to say.

Trusting Shakes's commendation implicitly, Holleran was sure to contact his original commanding officer, MacCoy, to speak to him about recruiting.

And when Spike did show up for the recruitment cattle call, Holleran was nearly embarrassed when the rest of Team One saw the scrawny brunet who looked like a teenage boy. Standing just a bit taller than Greg, he was barely in his mid-twenties and looked like he would barely even be able to pick up an assault rifle, let alone fire one. And of course, Shakes hadn't told Holleran any of this.

The rest of the applicants absolutely towered over him. He stood out like a sore thumb in a room full of intimidating, strapping men, and not in a good way.

However, when it came time for the trials, he surprised them all.

Although not as skilled as a sniper, the kid was a bull's eye shot. He also passed the endurance and hand-to-hand tests with flying colors.

Rolie and Ed ran the physical evaluation. All the recruits stood in a straight line at the obstacle course and their names were called at random in pairs and they were timed individually.

Rolie actually let himself laugh when Ed called out, "Boneyman, Scarlatti, go!" and the pair instantly darted off for the course.

Robert Boneyman happened to be over six feet - a hulk of a man. He made Spike look even tinier by comparison.

The two made it to their twenty-pound packs and hoisted them onto their backs. They climbed the vertical wall and belly-crawled through the mud under the barbed netting.

As Ed, Rolie, and the rest of the recruits watched, astonished, Spike pulled ahead of Boneyman in the free sprint, his pack slamming against his back as he ran. He was fast; there was no denying that.

Then, as Spike hoisted himself over the edge of the mountain slope, Boneyman, who was just seconds behind him, lost his footing and slid back down. He cried out painfully as his foot got caught between two of the slats and he hung awkwardly, unable to free his twisted limb.

"Hey - hey!" Spike called out. Instead of continuing down the side of the mountain, he shot forward without hesitation, extending his grasp and gripping Boneyman's wrist tightly. Spike lurched forward, the weight of the huge man almost bringing him down with him. But he grunted and strained and pulled the other man back upright. "Come on!"

Ed and Rolie watched both shocked and impressed as Spike assisted Boneyman down the wall and continued to allow the man to lean on him. The pair hobbled through the tire field, dumped their packs, and collapsed at the end of the course.

They clocked out at twelve minutes and twenty-five seconds - a full five minutes behind any other time.

When it came time for Spike's psychological evaluation, he entered the room and smiled at Greg, who was already sitting down.

"Officer Scarlatti?" Greg asked as he rose to shake the younger man's hand. "Sergeant Greg Parker, nice to meet you."

"You too, Sergeant Parker." He sat down, folded his hands in front of himself on the table, and looked up at Greg expectantly.

"So," Greg began casually, "do you prefer Michelangelo?"

"Actually, most people call me, uh, Spike." He was grinning now, and it was contagious.

Greg chuckled. "'Spike'?" he repeated. "Okay. Okay. 'Spike.' I can do that. I'm cool, I'm hip." He laughed again, this time with the amiable young man, before getting to the interview. "All right. Let's start with this: I was out on the field today, during the course runs. The whole team was watching. I saw how the obstacle course played out. You wanna talk about it?"

Spike's face turned red. Suddenly he began to fidget a bit with his fingers. After a second he looked back up to meet Greg's scrutinizing gaze. "Not really sure what I'm supposed to say, sir."

Greg referenced a paper. "Twelve twenty-five." He raised his eyebrows and Spike nearly flinched. "Not your best time, Spike?"

Spike only gave another grin and shook his head. "No, sir," he said with a slight chuckle. "It wasn't."

"You got high marks in all the other trials - marksmanship, hand-to-hand, rappelling, bomb diffusion - you scored the top mark in diffusion." Spike's eyes widened just a bit at that and he chewed on his lips. "Great marks. But that bad time on the course puts you way close to the bottom."

Spike looked down and nodded. "I understand that, sir." He didn't look quite disappointed, but Greg couldn't really pinpoint the expression he was seeing.

Greg leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. "So why'd you do it?"

"He was my partner." Spike spoke so earnestly. His large brown eyes were wide with seriousness.

Greg almost burst out laughing. Was that all this was? Some misguided attempt at passing the obstacle course? Had this young officer simply misunderstood the rules or not heard the part about their times being separate?

But no. Greg had seen Spike's benchmark scores - they were through the roof. Shakes had told them the kid's IQ was near-genius. There was no way he just misheard Ed.

"But you weren't partners. Everyone's time is individual. We just do it that way to save time," Greg explained.

Spike didn't falter. "He needed my help," he said simply, shrugging with one shoulder. "I mean, if that was a real call, and my buddy had hurt himself like that and couldn't get to safety, that's what I'd do." Spike pulled his hands off the table and rested them on his knees. "Sergeant, I understand that a score like that brought my overall numbers down and probably blew my chances at getting a position on the SRU, but I'm not gonna apologize for what I did, or ask for a mulligan or anything like that. I stick by what I did - and I'd do the exact same thing again. And you can bet that as soon as you have another opening, you'll see me again."

Spike was offered a permanent position on SRU's Team One the next day and accepted.

And he thrived. He quickly became part of the team. When Jules and Lou had joined, Team One began to feel whole, but when they got Spike-

That was when the team became a family.

He filled the role of the overeager rookie well. He bonded with his teammates. He and Lou, who had been the most recent addition to the team before Spike, got particularly close. They quickly became best friends and damn near inseparable. Spike helped Lou open up, take a few risks; Lou became Spike's voice of reason (something he clearly never had before). They were no longer individuals, but they became some form of hybrid being - Spike and Lou.

Holleran recalled that devastating day when they lost the promising young officer. He remembered attending Lou's funeral and watching his parents thank Spike, standing right next to the closed casket, for everything he did for their son, for being his friend, for doing everything he could to try to help him - and watching as Spike turned away, suddenly unable to speak. The young man just sat in his seat for the rest of the ceremony, in a daze, not interacting with anyone.

But he rebounded, came back stronger than ever, and Spike became one of the best officers that Holleran had ever worked with. And now he was on the table for no reason other than that he wore the uniform.

Holleran looked out at Team One again, still sitting in the waiting room. They looked exhausted. He knew the team had been stressed and overtaxed lately, but they were the best at what they did. No one could defuse a hot call like Parker and his team. It was almost as if they weren't real, weren't human, but some kind of super-beings.

But they were, Holleran reminded himself. They were so very human.

Holleran and the members of Team One were all pulled out of their thoughts when a doctor entered the waiting room from the O.R., his green scrubs stained in places with still-fresh blood.

He looked out at the many anxious families in the waiting room before his eyes settled on the group of police officers. He nodded to them and asked, "Michelangelo Scarlatti?"

[…]

Well, there it is. Lots and lots of Spike whump. For anyone who knows where I got the names Shakes and Boneyman, you get one internet cookie. Chapter three will come shortly. Live long and prosper, my friends!


	3. Chapter 3

Holy update, Batman! Welcome to chapter three! This one's a little shorter than the last one. As I'm writing this out, I'm not splitting it up into chapters, so I just break it up where it feels like there's a good stopping point.

And for anyone at home playing my ghetto Flashpoint trivia game, Robert "Shakes" Boneyman was the name of a member of Team One featured in the original unaired pilot (known then as "Critical Incident").

Again, so many thanks to everyone reading this. I hope you're enjoying the ride as much as I am! And to everyone who has reviewed, I seriously cannot thank you enough. I am so humbled by your kind words. You have no idea how happy you've made me.

[…]

Feeling was the first thing to return to Spike, unfortunately for him. A gentle and vague fuzziness, a sensation of floating gave way to a dull tenderness. At first it was no more than an irritation. It covered his entire body and refused to go away, like a gnat buzzing at your ear that you would repeatedly swat at and miss. Then, sluggishly, the tenderness turned into an aching - his head - god, his arm - his stomach.

The second sense was smell. Something sterile, like alcohol or bleach, mixed with blood. It was nauseating. Or maybe that was the painful throbbing that was making his stomach roll.

Next was sound. It was in and out, muffled, (later he would find out that was partially due to his damaged eardrums), but there were definitely people talking around him, their subdued conversations drifting in and out. He couldn't make out who it was, had no idea whether he'd ever heard those voices before - he couldn't even register what gender they were. But they were low and soft and made him feel safe. They comforted him.

Finally, despite his best efforts, consciousness found its way to Spike. He gave a low, quiet groan as his head swam in a mixture of his injuries and the strongest drugs doctors could provide.

He felt a hand on his own. It was a light touch - wary, hesitant.

"Spike. Hey, come on, buddy. That's it, let's get those eyes open."

His eyes cracked open - a huge mistake. His lids were heavy and uncooperative. The room was too bright white, and it was unclear and spinning and made him feel sick.

Spike stilled for a moment. He took a few deep breaths - as deep as his painfully restricted ribs would allow - and tried again. He blinked his eyes a few times before he got them all the way open and waited for the ceiling tiles to stop moving.

Once he thought he could manage it without throwing up everywhere, Spike shifted his head to the right just the slightest bit. For some reason it didn't surprise him to see Wordy sitting forward in his seat next to him; the man was constantly in father mode.

He smiled hesitantly down at Spike. "There you go. Welcome back. I'm gonna call the doctor - then I'll call the team, okay?"

Spike nodded slightly, almost imperceptively in response. He tried to speak, but found only a scratchy squeak came out of his mouth. He hadn't realized how incredibly dry his throat was.

Wordy seemed to understand and reached for the table. There was a stack of paper cups and a bucket full of ice chips with a scoop in it. He shoveled a good amount into a cup and helped Spike hold it up to his lips with his good right hand. Spike let the cool relief of the ice soothe his parched throat.

Spike swallowed and nodded at his friend, and Wordy replaced the cup on the table before taking his seat again.

"Thank you," Spike said. His voice still sounded incredibly impaired, and he was so groggy.

Wordy smiled down at his drugged up friend. He had been beaten to a pulp, was unconscious for two whole days, looked like hell - and still his first words after waking up were thank you. How very Spike. "You're welcome," Wordy replied warmly.

Spike's brow furrowed slightly and he grunted in discomfort. He reached up to his face where he felt a nasal cannula. Moving upward, he found a few bandages. He hit a tender spot and hissed in pain, retracting his hand. "What…what happen'?" he asked quietly.

Wordy snickered briefly. "Boy, is that a loaded question." This earned him a confused look from Spike. "Look, just know that you're gonna be okay," Wordy assured him sincerely. "The doctor will be in here in a second and he'll explain everything."

Instead of arguing Spike just resigned and let his eyes fall closed again. He knew bits and pieces of what had happened - he remembered being in the truck and he remembered the mob; he could deduce what happened from there, the details were just fuzzy.

And god, had he ever been this tired in his entire life?

Just as Spike felt himself falling back asleep, he heard the door open and close. He somehow forced his eyes open again and saw a short, fat black man wearing a white coat over scrubs. He looked stern and tired until his eyes caught sight of the young officer lying in the bed, eyes barely open. The doctor's face lit up with a broad smile.

"Officer Scarlatti!" he proclaimed jovially, striding over to the foot of the bed. "Good morning."

"Mornin'," Spike slurred, much more subdued than the doctor.

"I'm Carl Traver - I've been looking out for you these past few days," the doctor continued as he picked up the chart at the footboard and jotted down a few observations. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Wordy stood up and stretched out his back. He pointed over his shoulder and glanced back and forth between Spike and Dr. Traver a few times saying, "I'm gonna go call the others. I'll be back in a minute."

When Wordy shut the door behind himself, he made his way toward the main lobby. He stepped outside into the night air and fished through his jeans pocket for his phone.

They hadn't wanted to leave Spike alone. They didn't want their friend to have to wake up by himself. The rest of the team had just left the hospital a little over fifteen minutes ago to get something to eat. Wordy volunteered to stay behind since he had eaten with Shelley and the girls before he went to the hospital that day.

Wordy pressed number three on his speed dial; Ed answered after the first ring.

"What is it, Wordy?" the man spurted into the phone, his mouth full of fries.

"Hey, Ed, nice to hear from you too," quipped Wordy in response. He took a deep breath, relaxing for the first time in almost three days. "He's back."

Wordy knew he was on speaker when he heard a chorus of cheers followed by Greg shushing all of them.

"How is he?" Jules asked once everyone had settled down.

"He's…" Wordy trailed off, laughing. "He's pretty out of it. But I think he's okay, guys. He doesn't seem to really remember what happened, but that might be the drugs. His doctor's in there explaining everything to him right now."

"Okay, we just paid, Wordy," Greg told him. "We're just around the corner, we'll be there in five minutes."

"Make it two," Sam corrected around the food in his mouth. "I'm driving."

Wordy heard clapping, and then Ed whooped and enthusiastically cried, "Let's go see our boy!"

[…]

There was a knock on Spike's hospital door. Dr. Traver rose from where he had been seated on the side of the bed as the door opened slowly.

Jules peeked into the room tentatively wearing a huge smile on her face. "Is it okay to come in?" she asked, looking around the doctor to see her friend.

As soon as she laid eyes on the bomb tech though, the smile fell from her face. All Jules could think about was how the scene before her just wasn't right. Spike wasn't supposed to be so small, so delicate.

So broken.

Like he was made of glass that had shattered to tiny fragments, and was then glued back together. Like his fragile body was riddled with spider web cracks, the pieces all ill-fitting and absurd.

Spike was stronger than Jules in a lot of ways. It wasn't always obvious - like with Sam or Wordy - but it was there, bubbling just beneath his exterior. His slight stature and sweet face and disarming, lopsided grin belied a sort of vigor most men envied.

This was the same young man, after all, who was set on fire by a drug addict in a psychotic break and was still able to crack jokes at his own expense to put his friend's mind at ease; the same man who forwent any kind of protective bomb gear as he defused an unstable explosive device strapped to a woman and somehow still managed to do his job more efficiently than anyone else could have, and then took the time to actually say, "You're welcome!" in the most sincere way possible when she thanked him for saving her life; the same man who was literally willing to die for his friend who he knew deep down was beyond saving even if he couldn't admit it to himself because Sam was right, there was no room between the trigger and Lou's foot and the statistics for a weight transfer just weren't in their favor but damn it, Spike had to do something because he firmly believed there was always a way.

Because that was the kind of man Spike was.

And yet, as Jules looked down at her friend and teammate lying in the hospital bed, she felt choked up all over again. The person there didn't even look like Spike.

Sam and Wordy joked all the time about how lucky Spike was, about how much good karma he must have had stored up. After all, during his years with the SRU he had never been shot, had never sustained any kind of serious injury.

Now he was just lucky to be alive.

"Come on in," Dr. Traver said as he waved them over and took a step away from the bed. "I was just explaining to Officer Scarlatti his injuries and some of the details of the recovery process. Although, I think I must be pretty boring - he's trying to fall back asleep on me."

Hearing that, Spike's eyes darted open almost comically. "No, no, I'm up, I'm up," he said drowsily.

"Spike, it's okay," Greg said gently, putting a hand out to stop the young man from trying to sit up. "Go to sleep. We'll be here when you wake up."

Spike had never felt more tired in all his life; otherwise he would have put up more of a fight, and the team knew it.

"Kay," Spike muttered, waving his good hand lazily and allowing his eyes to close heavily again. "But promise me you guys'll go home an' go ta bed. Dr. Tay - ah… Dr. What's's-Face-Guy-Over-There told me you haven't left 'im alone since I got here. So shut up an' go home. You all look worse'n I do." Spike squinted at Greg. "Boss, you look awful. Just…terrible." Everyone laughed at his expense and Greg looked mildly offended, but he really couldn't blame Spike. The younger man's words were slurring together because Dr. Traver raised the dosage on the morphine drip once he woke up. He was out in a matter of seconds.

The doctor turned to the team and sighed, smiling brightly. "He's doing great," he assured them. "He'll be sort of in and out these first few days, but he'll become more coherent once we start weaning him off the pain medication. Also, Officer Scarlatti consented for me to explain his injuries to you."

Although they could guess most of Spike's visible injuries, his doctor legally couldn't divulge the details without his patient's consent.

"Now," the doctor continued, sitting at the foot of Spike's bed, "some of these may sound quite extensive, but I assure you, your friend is on his way to recovery."

Sam mentally steeled himself, and shooting a quick glance to Wordy, he knew the older man was doing the same. Out of the entire team, they were they only two who really saw up close how damaged Spike really was that day (Greg had explained how he had been banished to a corner of the ambulance and couldn't see much of anything while the EMTs worked to keep Spike breathing and regulate his blood pressure). Upon seeing Spike in the hospital for the first time, Sam had to admit that all bandaged up he didn't really look all that bad - worse for wear, but still.

But Sam knew what ugly scars were hiding under those bandages.

"Okay, where to begin…" Dr. Traver muttered to himself, flipping through a few pages in the chart he held. His sighed and folded his arms, trapping the chart flat against his chest. "Okay. First of all, I'm sure it comes as no surprise that Constable Scarlatti suffered from a fairly severe grade three concussion. His brain swelled against his skull, but it luckily didn't get to the point that we had to relieve the pressure manually. That being said, he did sustain two minor skull fractures that were repaired with steel plating. Those should heal up with no problem. We'll want to monitor him for awhile - certain side effects often present themselves with serious concussions, such as migraines, vertigo, tinnitus - but right now everything looks good and I'm not concerned about that. He also has a few broken ribs - which wouldn't have been a big deal either, but one of the ribs punctured a lung." Sam suppressed a grimace. "Again, this will heal given some time, but until then Constable Scarlatti will need assistance breathing. Besides that there are some minor bruises, cuts, and burns - some of these were agitated by the pepper spray, but infection didn't set in, and I'm not concerned. Um…some stitches, a blown eardrum…" The doctor looked up at the team a bit more grimly as he continued. "Now, the injury I'm most worried about is the arm. His left arm was broken in two separate places. One is a clean crack in the wrist - not necessarily a problem - but the other is what we call an open fracture. That's when a break is delivered with such force that the bone actually snaps and protrudes from the skin. These don't usually heal so cleanly. We've got steel rods in place to guide the bones as they heal, but even then, there's a chance they could heal incorrectly."

When Dr. Traver didn't elaborate, Greg took it upon himself to speak up. "How do you mean, Doctor?" He didn't mean for his words to come out with a slight tremor.

"With a break like this, the biggest risk is nerve damage."

Everyone let the words hang heavily in the sterile room. The words were frightening; they were career ending words.

"See," Traver continued, picking over his words carefully, "when the bone breaks free of the skin, it tears everything in its way - ligaments, muscle - and nerves. And there's no way of telling how extensive the damage is until we asses that in physical therapy."

There was still something else, something vital being left unsaid. Had Traver known what the SRU did when they weren't hiding behind huge guns or defusing bombs - had he known how well they were trained to read and profile people - he would have known there was no avoiding this.

"What aren't you saying?"

It was Jules who ventured to ask. And as Traver looked at the faces of the people he had come to know over the past few days as they sat tirelessly keeping vigil over a fallen friend, he resigned.

"I'm saying, Officers," Traver spoke heavily, "that it's going to be a long time before Constable Scarlatti returns to work. If he is able to return at all."

[…]

Yay, chapter three. Thanks so much for reading. You make me happier than a bird with a French fry. Here's another chance to earn points in the Flashpoint trivia game - anyone know where I borrowed the names Carl and Traver?

I'll leave you all with a fun story. I'm re-watching Flashpoint with my mom, who's never seen the show before. Every time I visit we watch a couple episodes, and we're just about to finish season two. And for whatever reason, my mom started calling Wordy "Dirty Wordy." Yeah, I don't know. I asked her about it and she just gave me this dry look, raised her eyebrows, and said, "Dirty Wordy, the Entry Specialist."

She's a laugh and a half.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey party people. Sorry for the delay on this one. I've been busy. I have friends and a life and stuff. Why shouldn't I? Don't look at me like that.

Congrats to Buckeye for getting my ghetto trivia question right! Yeah, in the unaired pilot Jules's name was Kate Travers and she was having an affair with Ed and I was all like, "Say whaaat."

I am constantly amazed by the kind words you guys are saying when you review. I am so grateful for every review, favorite, and follow. For reals, just forget the French fry - I think this bird found a whole damn Happy Meal. Now scroll down and enjoy chapter four!

[…]

The next time Spike woke up was early the next afternoon. It was Saturday, and Sam happened to be the only one in the room at the time.

Since the team had been given the prognosis by Dr. Traver, Sam had been mildly stunned. He had never known an SRU without Spike. As long as Sam had been on the team, there had been Spike. He couldn't even really imagine what it would be like trying to make it through the tough calls without his never-ending sense of humor or his expertise.

As he watched his friend sleep, Sam studied him.

It was easy to forget how small Spike was. Besides Jules, he was definitely the least physically intimidating member of the team. And Spike often spent so much time in the truck, Sam had to admit that he often glanced over how very capable his friend was. Not only was Spike as good a shot as any cop on the force, but he fought with the strength of a man twice his size (tackling a volatile, armed subject in a hospital basement and administering a flawless sleeper hold on an angry young man holding a live bomb came to mind).

And then there was Spike's specialty.

If anyone else on the team were to become incapacitated and unable to do their job, there was always another member who could step up and do it for them. If Greg couldn't negotiate, Ed could. If Sam had no joy, Jules would be there.

But if Spike couldn't defuse a bomb…

And Sam admired Spike every time he went out to the field for a diffusion. Sam felt safe up high on a sniper's perch. There was a sense of security that came with being up so toweringly; untouchable.

But every single damn time Spike went to do his job, he risked everything. And he never hesitated, never flinched. True, their job was never safe, but there was something wholly different, something utterly and debilitatingly terrifying about walking right up to an armed explosive, staring down a ticking timer, sticking your bare hands right in it, and risking getting blown to a thousand unidentifiable pieces by simply trying to render it safe. It was definitely the most dangerous aspect of their job.

And to watch Spike work on a bomb was another thing entirely.

Sam had seen diffusions before, of course - in Kandahar. Not intimately and not particularly up close, but he had seen them. He had been present for them. But with Spike, disarming a bomb was different; it was personal. No one was better at his job than he was. It was as simple as that. His normally clumsy hands became almost graceful. His fingers moved nimbly, with purpose.

Sam would almost compare them to choreographed dancers in a ballet, each moving in time to a rhythm only Spike could hear.

Yes, no one was quite like their Spike. To think of a Team One without him scared Sam more than he'd be willing to admit, but that was all he could concentrate on as his blue eyes bored into Spike's heavily casted left arm. It wasn't particularly unpleasant to look at with the rainbow of signatures and pleasantries and get wells decorating it (not to mention the Spongebob stickers Wordy's daughters insisted Spike would love), but Sam cringed outwardly anyway, remembering what was underneath and what it could possibly mean for his friend. His gaze drifted down to those graceful fingers - now mangled by a faceless, enraged young man with a steel baseball bat - and he wondered if they would ever work properly again. Spike loved bombs more than anything; it was one of the few things Sam was aware of that he was passionate about. What would Spike do if he couldn't handle bombs anymore?

A rustle from the bed brought his attention away from his thoughts. He observed as Spike jerked awake abruptly, his heavily lidded eyes scanning the ceiling rapidly, confused, his good hand gripping tightly at the sheets, the steady rhythm of the heart rate monitor increasing markedly.

Sam, realizing that Spike was disoriented and didn't know where he was, placed a tentative hand on the technician's forearm. "Hey," he whispered cautiously, gently. "You're okay, Spike. It's Sam. You're okay, and you're in a hospital."

The words seemed very familiar and very distant to Spike. He stilled and turned his aching head toward the voice and despite the pain and drowsiness, he twisted his face into what arguably could have been a smile. "Samtastic," he croaked.

Sam returned the smile, because how could he not? It was _Spike._

"You want some water, buddy?" Sam offered, already reaching for the unopened plastic bottle by his feet that he had taken in with him. When Spike murmured a response, Sam unscrewed the cap and held it up to Spike's lips, helping his friend drink. When he had a few sips Sam pulled the bottle away and Spike coughed lightly, clearing his throat.

"Thanks, Sam. Sammmm… Samtastic…" Spike drawled, letting his eyes flutter closed again. He sighed deeply and his breathing evened out after a moment. Sam thought he had fallen back asleep, but then Spike spoke up again, eyes still closed. "I'm in a hospit'l." A statement.

"Yeah. You remember anything?" After a moment when Spike didn't respond, Sam ventured further, adding, "You woke up yesterday and the doctor talked to you."

Spike's brow furrowed. "Hmmmm…" It was a deep hum, from the back of his throat. "I 'member Wordy was here. I think…" His words were still very garbled and quiet. Sam had to lean forward to make them out.

"Yeah, Wordy was here," Sam encouraged patiently.

"I musta… I guess I hit my head?" At that, Spike's eyes cracked open and his right hand drifted up to his head. He fingered the bandages gingerly, then felt around to the back of his head. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Spike?"

"Sam, whuh happ'nd ta my hair? 'M I bald?"

Sam balked. He hadn't been prepared for that. Of all the things he had been expecting Spike to say, that certainly hadn't been one of them. Of course, Spike's head had to be shaved for the operation to repair his fractured skull, but for some reason Sam felt incredibly uneasy addressing it so upfront.

It was Sam, as a matter of fact, who had pointed out once, when he first joined the SRU, that Spike had a habit of running his hands through his hair when he got stressed out. This caused his hair to become increasingly more wild during their more taxing calls until by the end of the day it would be standing on end, pointing out in every direction, causing Spike to properly look like the mad scientist the entire team knew he truly was. This gave the team some welcome relief on those trying days and Spike still had no idea why everyone smirked at him like that. Just like every unique, quirky aspect of Spike's, it added to his charm.

"Sam?" Spike was watching him expectantly.

"Uhh, yeah-" he finally said, his voice breaking slightly. Sam cleared his throat and continued. "Yeah, the doctors had to shave your head - to work on it. It, uh - it doesn't look bad though."

"Oh." Spike paused, closed his eyes again. "Do me a favor? Can ya not tell Ed 'n th' Sarge? 'N Wordy? We don' need another baldy on th' team."

And Sam allowed himself to smile again. He was comforted by the fact that fractured skull or no, Spike was still Spike.

And morphine was a hell of a drug.

[…]

Over the next few days Spike became increasingly more coherent. He was able to hold more and more lucid conversations, but he also became more aware of the state of his body. It seemed that every slight movement jostled his broken arm or his head or ribs or pulled at his stitches. Spike was never one for sitting still, and as the haze around his mind slowly began to lift and he was conscious for longer stretches of time, he quickly became restless, like when he had to sit through Sunday mass with his family as a kid.

One evening almost a week after Spike had been admitted into the hospital, he sat in bed with Jules talking animatedly next to him, having shown up after shift much to Spike's delight. The team had returned to work that week, and with his mother caring for his sick father, he had no regular visitors during the day. Reading gave him a headache and he had little interest for daytime soaps, so the past few days had been excruciatingly dull for the injured officer. He loathed to admit that he was almost looking forward to the nurses popping in periodically to redress his wounds, draw blood, and generally poke and prod at his poor beaten body and make him feel uncomfortable.

So even though Jules was speaking way too fast for Spike's still drug addled brain to keep up with and eating half of his hospital mush-dinner, he realized what she was doing and he appreciated it.

The distraction was nice, and so very welcome.

But then Spike caught something Jules had said as the woman spoke, her hands flying about excitedly as she told her story.

"-And I just couldn't get access to the records - I mean, I got them eventually, yeah, but still, it took some doing - and I thought about how it would have taken you, what, like a minute to get the password and it just - I mean, it would have been nice to have you there, Spike - we really missed you today-"

They had missed him today.

"Jules," Spike interrupted softly, cutting his friend off mid-sentence.

Jules immediately leaned forward on the edge of her seat, concerned and attentive. "What is it, Spike? Do you need something?"

Spike took a short moment, licked his lips, before he responded. "When are you guys replacing me?"

It was just a question, simple as that. There wasn't a hint of malice or pity in Spike's voice.

Jules slowly sat back, speechless for the first time since she arrived at the hospital that evening. She smiled shakily and asked, "What are you talking about, Spike? Replace you? Come on, you know you're going to get better and-"

"Jules."

Spike was staring hard at her. After a moment Jules had to look away.

"I'm not stupid, Jules," Spike continued. "An injury like this-" He nodded at his broken left arm. "It doesn't heal up in a week. You guys can't just be a man down forever."

"But it won't be forever," intoned Jules desperately. "It's just until you get better. Spike, we're not going to just forget about-"

"My doctor told me, you know. I know what the odds are of me recovering with the full use of my hand. I know that…that I might not ever make it back on the team."

"Stop it." Jules was almost near tears at this point, her tone sharp. "Don't say that, Spike."

"It's true. If my hand doesn't work one hundred percent I can't trust myself to hold a gun steady, let alone defuse a bomb. This team deserves someone they can depend on, who can keep 'em safe. You guys, you - you need to move on. I want you to. You can't hold open a spot for me when we don't know if I'll ever make it back. It's too big a risk. I'm a liability, Jules. And if you put a gun in my hands - I'm dangerous. The last thing I want is to see one of you get hurt."

Jules almost laughed outright at the irony of that statement. Instead, she admitted, "Holleran spoke to the Sarge yesterday about holding trials." Spike raised his eyebrows at that and Jules continued soberly. "God. You should've seen how livid he got. He told Holleran that it was too soon, and that we aren't even sure yet that you'll need to _be_ replaced. I mean, I know the Sarge knows, but it's like he's in denial. He's scared, Spike - we all are. But Holleran was firm about it. We have to hold trials next week. We just - god, Spike, we don't want to lose you, you have no idea…"

"But you won't be losing me. Just 'cause I'm not on the team anymore doesn't mean we have to stop being friends all of a sudden," Spike pointed out.

"It won't be the same, and you know it. And besides, you're - you're an important part of the team, Spike." Jules forced herself to exhale slowly, taking control of her breathing. "I don't want to be on it if you're not there." She sat forward again and placed her hand over Spike's. Jules could tell how worn-out the man had become, how exhausted the conversation had made him.

"No one does this job forever. You know that." Spike sounded so resigned, so damn tired. It frustrated Jules that Spike had seemingly just accepted his fate so easily.

"Yeah, I do, I know, but you still have so much time left. There are still so many people you need to help, Spike, so many people you can save, and it just - it makes me so mad! It's not fair that this happened to you. I - I just - how are you not angry?!"

"Jules. Jules, hey - Jules. _Jules,_" Spike whispered over her impassioned words, squeezing her hand with weak, trembling fingers, and odd calm having taken over him, "it's gonna be okay."

And god, those words - those familiar, horrible fucking words that Jules still heard in her nightmares - they were what did her in. Forsaking any dignity she may have had before, Jules let the dam break and really, honest-to-god for the first time in far too long let herself break down and just cry.

And as Jules allowed her chest and head to collapse on the bed, burying her face in Spike's shoulder, she felt her friend's unsteady hand move to run through her hair. She felt Spike stroking her head, placating her and shushing her and telling her over and over again that it's gonna be okay, Jules, it's gonna be okay, and she couldn't help but think about how backwards this whole situation was. She should be the one holding and comforting Spike, not the other way around.

And in that moment Jules hated herself just a little bit because yes, Spike really was stronger than her in a lot of ways and no, it just wasn't fair that this had happened to him.

"…Jules. It's gonna be okay."

[…]

I am still so sad about Lou. This chapter was a pleasure to write. Hope you liked it! I wish I could invite you guys all over to my apartment for chocolate cake and soda, but I don't think Brenda across the hall would appreciate the ruckus.

Here's another story about my mom watching Flashpoint. Remember Sally? In the wee early episodes she was the dispatcher - in the time before Kira. She thought Sally was a hooker and that the SRU was doing some kind of work release program. And then she started talking about how the hot call siren sounds kind of like disco music. Like Kira is wearing bell bottoms behind the desk or something. Then when Kira disappeared and we met Wonderful Winnie, she was so confused. We decided that the police life was just too much for Kira and that she returned to the disco, where she felt safe and funky.


	5. Chapter 5

Hellooo. Thank you guys so much for all your awesome words - and a super-big thank you for sticking around with me. I really hope you guys are enjoying reading as much as I'm enjoying writing.

The action picks up a bit more in this one. Keep in mind I was a theatre major in college and I have no medical training, only textbooks and the Google machine. For god's sake, I'm a writer, Jim, not a doctor. That being said, please enjoy chapter five. :D

[…]

The next week Team One held trials for a replacement bomb technician - but they weren't happy about it. They were disinterested, they took all the time they could afford filling out the necessary paperwork, and they made it very clear to all the applicants that the position was very, very temporary.

Greg went to visit Spike in the hospital after the initial cattle call trials. Even after the marksmanship, hand-to-hand, obstacle course, and other training tests had weeded out a lot of the candidates, they still over a hundred hopefuls to sift through. So Greg knocked on Spike's door and poked his head in the room, a thick stack of files under his arm.

"Everybody decent in here?" he called out lightheartedly.

"Hold on, I'm almost finished giving Mike his sponge bath!" came a snappy female voice. She laughed, Spike gave a low chuckle, and the woman added, "I'm just kidding. I'm just checking out some things over here and then I'll be out of your guys' hair."

"Oh, no rush," Greg assured, stepping into the room. He watched as the pretty blonde nurse fussed around with the medicine IV that fed into Spike's forearm.

"I can't believe you're busting out of here tomorrow. I'll be so sad to see my favorite patient go," the nurse pouted as she worked.

"Yeah, that makes one of us," sighed Spike. Greg noticed that his energy seemed a bit lower than it had been the past few days. Dr. Traver had been steadily lowering the dosage of Spike's pain medication day by day in preparation for sending him home. Greg knew the younger man had been in good spirits since the cloud over his mind had been most of the way lifted. Usually Spike would be flirting and teasing along with the pretty young nurse. Greg became increasingly more apprehensive as he waited.

"Okay," the nurse said finally, turning to beam vibrantly at her patient. "I think we're all done here. Mike, if that's too low, you just give me a call, you got that?"

"Yeah." Spike lazily nodded his head once. "Thanks, Kate."

The nurse squeezed Spike's hand before turning away, gave Greg a pleasant smirk, and left the room, closing the door behind herself.

When Spike didn't immediately greet him, Greg shuffled forward slowly. In a buoyant attempt to make conversation, he asked, "Lowering your medicine some more?"

"Yep."

The profiling gears in Greg's mind began whirring. Hmm. A monosyllabic response. Very un-Spike.

Greg took a seat and looked at the younger man, who was looking at his good hand, picking neutrally at the blanket. Spike seemed to be concentrating very hard on something.

"Is it too low?" Greg fished. "The medicine, I mean? Cause I can call that nurse - what was her name? Kate? - I can call her back in here and-"

"No, Boss, s'not that. Sorry," Spike said breathily. He turned to look at Greg. "Sorry," he repeated with a forced smile. "I'm just a little tired t'day, that's all. Breathin' on my own for the first time in two weeks an' all."

It wasn't until then that Greg noticed the nasal cannula that had been aiding Spike's breathing since he had been woken up had been removed.

"Oh - oh! Spike, I'm sorry, buddy - I didn't even notice," Greg gushed enthusiastically. "That's - that's great, that's terrific. That's so - that's - how are you feeling? Everything all right, you feeling okay?"

Spike flushed at the consideration and suppressed a cough. He waved Greg's nervous flitting off and assured him, "Boss, 'm good, I really am. It's just…harder'n I thought it'd be. It's really kickin' my butt. Y' know, maybe Ed doesn't work us as hard as he thinks he does. I must be outta shape."

Greg took a closer look at his officer. He could see now that Spike's breathing was slightly affected and his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat. It honestly looked like he had taken several steps back in the recovery process.

Greg wanted so much to be a busy mother hen and bustle about and shower Spike with attention and ask him again if he was sure he was all right, to assure him that it was okay if he wasn't, that after everything he had been through he was allowed to take it easy on himself just a little bit-

But he didn't. He knew that would just frustrate the young man even more.

"Okay," said Greg after a long moment. He patted Spike's knee comfortingly. "Okay, buddy. But you let me know if you need anything."

Spike grinned tiredly up at his sergeant and replied, "You got it." Then he looked down at the stack of documents in Greg's hands. "Whatcha got there? Anything fun?"

Greg suddenly remembered the files he still held in his lap; in his eagerness over Spike's development he had forgotten all about them.

"Oh, these are, ah…" Greg stumbled over the words momentarily, waving the files absently. "They're, um - they're the applicants we've flagged."

Spike perked up a bit at this. He struggled to sit up a little higher in bed and drawled, "Ah, the eager young padawans that wanna become Jedi knights." He coughed again, politely turning his head away from Greg.

Greg chuckled, thankful for the fact that Spike could still kid at such a time. "Yeah, sure. Turns out there's a lot of people who want your job, Spike. A few of them even put you down as a reference." Greg paused, debating whether or not to continue. "That's actually why I brought these in today. See, we're having a little trouble thinning the numbers and Eddie suggested I - well-"

"Bring them ta me to see if I can knock a few names offa the list?" Spike finished for him.

"Uh - yeah." Greg looked pitiably down at Spike again. He seemed to have gotten more sluggish since the older man had shown up. "Listen, Spike, we don't have to do this, not right now. If you're not feeling well I can come back another-"

"Boss." That one word stopped Greg in his tracks. Spike smirked weakly - a kind of smirk that thinly veiled pain, Greg mused - and coughed again. "The bomb community in this country is a lot smaller'n more close-knit than you might think. Lemme do this. I c'n help." He paused, and Greg look at him guardedly, obviously not wanting to push Spike into overexerting himself. "Please, I wanna help."

Greg was still unsure. Spike was starting to look really awful in his opinion. "Spike, are you sure you feel up to this?"

Spike gave his boss a very serious and incensed look. "I have counted the ceiling tiles seventeen times," he deadpanned. "I've written three letters ta mail to my gran'parents in Italy." He took a moment, sighed. "Boss, I called Winnie at work today an' asked her ta put Babycakes on th' phone so I could say hi. _Please._"

Greg could only gape at Spike for a moment, trying to tell whether the young man was being serious or not. "Spike. You asked to talk to your robot?"

"I'm jus' sayin'," he countered mock-defensively. "I'm goin' a little stir-crazy. 'N b'sides, I really can help."

And Spike did help. For a good portion of the candidates Greg only had to read the name and the bomb technician would immediately recognize the person and rattle off pertinent information.

_I did a seminar with that guy a few months ago - really talented but a pain in the ass to work with._

_She studied under a buddy of mine - not really cut out for the job._

_I've heard about him - works on the emergency bomb squad, yeah? Supposed to be really reliable, but don't give him a gun._

_That guy helped me pull some info on a dirty bomb once, but it was weird - I thought he kinda smelled like cheese._

The two continued for sometime, Greg reading off names, Spike putting in his two cents, and Greg jotting notes down on the papers. After about an hour they had made three piles - one for definitely nots, one for maybes, and one for smells kinda like cheeses.

They were on a roll and Greg was enjoying the rapport he had going with his subordinate. It was just like being back at the Barn. One minute the two were laughing and carrying on - then suddenly Spike began coughing again. However, unlike his earlier bouts where he would wheeze once or twice and that would be it, this time Spike didn't stop. His face was turning red from the force of hacking and Greg knew it had to have been hurting his healing ribs.

Greg had his hand on Spike's back and was rubbing it in reassuring little circles. When that clearly wasn't helping to calm the young man, Greg stood up. "Here, let me get you some water," he stated calmly. As he moved to turn, he felt something tug at his arm. He looked down and saw Spike's hand fisted feebly around his sleeve. Looking into the young man's face, Greg saw something that hadn't been there before: pain, and - was that fear?

"B…Bo-oss…" Spike struggled to get out between gasping breaths and painful coughs. "I-I - nngh! I can't-"

Then Spike was cut off, seemingly not able to get a sufficient breath in at all. And while Greg projected an outward air of calm and control while he pushed the call button above the bed and told Spike not to panic, to just calm down, to focus on Greg's eyes and his own breathing - inside he was panicking. His heart was racing almost as fast as Spike's was; he could feel the thumping in his chest as it held almost perfect time with the now erratic beeping of the heart rate monitor.

It felt like ages before that same nurse from before opened the door and stepped inside the room.

"You guys doing all right in he-?" Kate cut herself off at the sight of Mike struggling to breathe and his visitor twisting around to shoot her a pleading look.

All at once Kate - with her perfume and blonde ponytail and pink scrubs and flirtatious nature - was all business.

Poking her head back out into the hallway, Kate called out, "I need a doctor in here now, please! Patient in immediate respiratory distress!" She rushed over to the bed and began to physically asses Spike. She pushed him back so that he was lying flat on the bed and placed her palm firmly on his chest. After a moment Kate stepped away to throw a drawer open. She returned with an oxygen mask which she strapped over Spike's face and began squeezing to inflate.

Greg had since taken a step away from the bed so as not to get in the way. From where he stood he saw two more people enter the room: a young female doctor, accompanied by a handsome male nurse.

"Patient has been being treated for a punctured lung for the past two weeks," Kate appraised for her as the doctor hurriedly put on a pair of latex gloves she drew from her coat pocket. "We took him off oxygen today. It looks like the lung collapsed."

The doctor snatched the stethoscope from around her neck and pushed the collar of Spike's scrubs down, holding the diaphragm to his chest to listen for breathing sounds. Pulling the buds out of her ears, she announced, "Okay, we're not getting enough oxygen. Looks like we need to do an emergency chest tube. Danny-"

"Got it," the male nurse responded, already prepared with a scalpel and a handful of equipment from another drawer.

"Kate, up the morphine, please," the doctor ordered, and the nurse did as she was instructed while the young doctor raised Spike's scrub shirt and swabbed an area of his left side with an alcohol pad.

Greg watched, mildly horrified, as the doctor felt his ribs and used the scalpel to make a small incision in his chest between two of them.

"Okay, let's turn him," she said, and she and Kate rolled Spike so that he was lying on his side with his casted left arm raised above his head. "Tube," she snapped, holding out her right hand, palm up. Danny passed the doctor a long, clear plastic tube. The female doctor firmly inserted the tube into the opening in Spike's chest, wedged it between his ribs, and fed it through. "Okay, suction." Danny attached an empty canister to the other end of the tube. A sickening mixture of pus and blood drained through the tube and into the canister. Danny then walked around to the other side of the bed and began cleaning up the wound with antiseptic towels.

Spike, for the most part, seemed to have mostly checked out before that point, although Greg was unsure whether this was due to the sudden increase in medication or from lack of oxygen. His brown eyes bobbed lazily under his lids as the heart monitor slowed and his once again assisted breathing evened out. His face and body were now drenched in sweat, his scrub top plastered thickly to his skin, and he was shivering slightly.

The male nurse, Danny, placed a hand to Spike's neck. "Dr. Buchanan, he's running a fever," he reported. He moved to grab a disposable thermometer, unwrapped it, and popped it in Spike's ear. After an instant it beeped and he removed it. He looked to the doctor, wide-eyed, as he threw the used thermometer in the hazardous waste bin. "It's one-oh-four.

"Okay, not a problem," the young doctor replied, not breaking her stride in the least. "Danny, bring us up some cold compresses from the second floor storage room." Danny nodded and left, and Dr. Buchanan looked to Kate. "Can you page Carl? Let him know the patient's stable, but that he'll want to check in here as soon as he's able. Oh, but I'll want to speak with him first."

"Okay." Kate looked from Spike's half-conscious form to Greg, still standing, shocked, against the wall. She offered the man a supportive smile before hastening from the room.

Once Kate was gone from the room, Dr. Buchanan allowed herself to groan as the adrenaline began to leave her body. She peeled the bloody gloves off her hands and dropped them in the waste bin. She turned to Greg, seemingly noticing him for the first time. She drew in a deep breath and deflating, offering a tired, "Hi," as she brushed her hair out of her face.

"Hi yourself," Greg responded instinctively. He swallowed hard, then earnestly said, "Um, thank you."

"Oh, I was doing my job," she responded, waving her hand dismissively. She took a few steps toward Greg and extended her hand. "I'm Jayma Buchanan. Dr. Traver should be here before too long, if you want to wait around and speak with him."

"Greg Parker," he replied, shaking her hand.

"I'm sorry you had to see that. Are you his father?"

Greg sputtered at that and laughed out loud. "No - no, I'm, ah, his sergeant."

"Oh." Then, realization dawned on Dr. Buchanan. "Oh! I'd heard there was a police officer in the wing, but I didn't realize…" She trailed off and looked over her shoulder at Spike in the bed. Turning back to look at Greg, she reflected, "He looks young."

Greg nodded his agreement. "He is young." Then, looking a bit harder at the brunette doctor before him, he realized how young _she_ looked; she couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and Greg assumed she must have been fresh out of medical school. That being considered, she handled the situation amazingly. Then Greg looked past the doctor and down at Spike. The younger man's eyes were now closed but he looked far from peaceful. Without looking away from the man in the bed, he distractedly said, "Excuse me," and moved next to the bed. The chair he had been sitting in had gotten shoved out of the way at some point by the hospital staff, so he moved it back to its position and sat down.

Spike seemed to have fallen into a fitful sleep. Although his breathing was again unobstructed, he was still sweating more than he should have been in the cool hospital room.

Greg was at a loss. In lieu of saying anything to the unconscious man, he guardedly took Spike's hand in his own, studying it. His hands were smaller than Greg thought they would be - than the thick protective gloves they all regularly wore made them appear - but with long, thin fingers; perfect for the intricate, detailed work Spike did. Greg found the calluses he expected, one in the divot between the thumb and forefinger, and another inside the knuckle of the middle finger. He had matching marks on his own hand, from his own gun. Continuing his exploration, however, he found marks he somehow hadn't been expecting. The tips of Spike's fingers were littered with cuts, all in various stages of healing; some appeared slightly fresh while others had scarred over years ago. There were also a few faint and healed burn marks on his hand and fingers, though these appeared to be much older than the cuts.

Well, Greg assumed, if you worked with volatile chemicals and explosives every day of your life since childhood, you're allowed to have a few minor accidents.

"He'll be okay," Dr. Buchanan assured him from where she stood over his shoulder. She was now flipping through Spike's chart. "The fever is an easy fix and the collapsed lung - although a setback - will heal, given time. We'll schedule a surgery for him in the morning."

Before Greg could verbalize a response, Danny reentered the room carrying a large, heavy box. "I wasn't sure how many to bring," he explained, panting from being out of breath, "so I grabbed a whole box."

"Danny, there's thirty compresses in a box," Dr. Buchanan said. She was clearly amused as she moved to help Danny set the box down on the counter near the bed. She cut the box open and pulled out a handful of the small blue packages. She moved over and placed them down on the bed. "These should bring the fever down in no time," she told Greg. One by one, Dr. Buchanan took the compresses in both hands and flexed them until they cracked in half, activating the cooling pack. Then she placed one on either side of Spike's neck, one under each of his arms, and one between his legs near his crotch.

"Um, what should I do with the rest of these?" Danny asked, lifting up one end of the box of compresses.

After considering for a moment, Dr. Buchanan responded, "Go ahead and leave them here. Check in on him in about an hour. If the fever hasn't broken, switch out the compresses."

Danny left, and Dr. Buchanan continued to check on a few more things. She adjusted the morphine drip slightly and recorded the new level on Spike's chart. She checked Spike's breathing with her stethoscope once more and looked overall pleased with the state of the young officer.

"Mr. Parker?" Buchanan spoke quietly, hoping not to disturb the trance the older man seemed to have fallen into while watching his officer rest. She waited until Greg looked up at her before continuing. "I'm going to speak with Dr. Traver now, and then he'll be up to speak with you in a bit. He'll be out for awhile," she said, nodding to Spike. "Will you be all right in here, or would you like me to send in a nurse?"

Greg stared at Spike. After his two weeks in the hospital, the bomb technician had finally started to look like himself again. Although he had lost a great deal of weight, some of the fullness and color had more recently begun to return to his cheeks. A fine fuzz of dark hair had spread over his head, and the minor injuries from his attack were mostly faded and forgotten.

But now, looking into the worn and fatigued face of his subordinate, the man he had long since considered a son, Greg couldn't help but be reminded of the fragile, pathetic, barely alive Spike from two weeks ago.

"Mr. Parker?" Buchanan repeated, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

Greg started a bit and said, "Uh, no. I'll be fine. Thank you, Doctor."

Buchanan smiled politely, replaced the file at the foot of the bed, and left.

Almost fifteen minutes later, Greg heard the door open again. He looked up impartially, expecting to see Dr. Traver, but instead saw a confused Ed Lane standing in the doorway. Greg watched as Ed's eyes flicked from the tube in Spike's chest to the barely detectable blood splatter on the hem of his scrubs.

Greg slowly rose to his feet. Hoping to placate the other man before he could fly off the handle with worry, in a low, warning voice he said, "Eddie-"

Ed cut him off, storming the rest of the way into the room, and Greg exhaustedly returned to his seat. "Greg, what the hell happened?!" Ed was fully prepared to tear into Greg until he was satisfied the sergeant had fully explained the situation, but he stopped short when he really looked at the other man.

Greg looked much more tired than he had when their shift ended just a few short hours ago. He sat, posture slumped, in the chair by the bed, looking like he hadn't slept in days. One hand was gripped tightly around Spike's right hand. Greg brought his free hand up to his face, a finger pressed to his lips, silently telling Ed to keep quiet, not to disturb their sleeping friend.

"Don't wake him up, Eddie," the Sarge whispered almost inaudibly. "It's been a rough day."

Ed's hard eyes softened - not completely, but considerably - and after a moment he conceded and pulled up the second visitors' chair in the room to the side of the bed opposite Greg and sank down into it heavily. He sighed, looking down at the younger man. Spike was pale and gaunt and sickly and had - oh Christ - a tube in his chest.

"So what happened?" Ed tried again in an almost impartial tone.

"They took him off oxygen today," explained Greg resignedly. "But I guess…it was too much, or too soon, or too something." He looked up and met Ed's gaze momentarily. "His lung collapsed, they said."

Ed cursed under his breath. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, unable to vent his pent-up frustrations. "So what does that mean for the recovery process?" he asked agitatedly, although he wasn't really sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"I'm not exactly sure," responded Greg vaguely. At Ed's exasperated look he continued. "The doctor who was in here wasn't Spike's normal doctor. All she said was that Dr. Traver would be in to talk to me soon, and that - uh, that Spike has to go back to surgery tomorrow morning."

"What-?"

"To fix the lung, Eddie." There was a pause before Greg spoke again. "He's running a fever, too."

Ed clenched his jaw, biting back his anger. He wasn't angry with Greg - no, how could he be? None of this was his fault. He was angry at the doctors who had weaned Spike off the oxygen too soon; he was angry at the sons of bitches who attacked Spike, twenty-to-one and beat him within an inch of his fucking life; but mostly Ed was angry with himself - and he knew it wasn't at all rational - for getting shot and being forced to take a leave of absence from being team leader. He knew it wouldn't have made any difference. Just like he had assured Sam two weeks ago, if Ed had been in charge of that call, Spike still would have been stuck in the truck driving getaway. There was no way Ed would have been able to part the mob any easier or quicker than Sam and Wordy had, so he wouldn't have been much more help there. And the pair had worked astoundingly to resuscitate and care for their bomb tech until paramedics arrived, and that was what had ultimately saved Spike's life that day. Ed couldn't have done any better or worked any harder. There was nothing he could have realistically done that would have spared Spike from this whole ordeal, but he couldn't help feeling guilty, like it should be his responsibility to shoulder the blame.

Finally Ed said, "You should have called us, Greg. The team would have wanted to know."

"It literally just happened," countered Greg calmly. "I've been sitting here maybe ten minutes. And anyway, I wanted to talk to Dr. Traver first. You know, so I'd have something to actually tell you. Good news, hopefully."

A silence fell over the two SRU officers and a few minutes later, a familiar face entered the room.

Greg looked up and Ed turned to look over his shoulder to see Dr. Traver. However, his normally cheerful disposition was dampened; he seemed grim. Ed swallowed nervously and looked back to Spike briefly. He had been hoping the situation was one of those "it looks a lot worse than it actually is" kind of deals, but that was seeming more and more unlikely.

Dr. Traver sat down at the foot of Spike's bed and watched the young man for a moment. Then, in a subdued voice, he asked, "How's he doing?"

"Well, they increased the morphine, and he hasn't woken up," Greg replied.

Traver nodded slowly before looking up at Greg, then at Ed. When he didn't speak immediately, both officers assumed the worst.

"Okay, Doc," began Ed apprehensively, "you're starting to scare us a little here."

Traver seemed to realize how foreboding he must have appeared to the men. He shook his head and gave and apologetic smile. "Oh, no - it's not as bad as I'm making it seem! Spike will be fine."

It was funny for Ed to hear Traver refer to their bomb tech by his nickname - something that was normally reserved for coworkers - but then he contemplated who the majority of Spike's visitors probably were (the team) and how many times the doctor had heard them call him Spike and not Mike or Michelangelo (uh, a lot), and he decided it was probably okay. In fact, Spike himself had probably insisted Traver call him that during his earlier, less lucid period.

Greg, upon hearing Spike would be all right, visibly sagged with relief. It was so frightening watching Spike in that bed, brown eyes open wide and filled with panic and pain, as he struggled to breathe - to stay alive. Although Greg, unlike the team alpha males Ed and Sam, had no particular hang-ups about feeling helpless or vulnerable (and god knows he felt helpless all the time when his team was in the field), in that moment, when his only role was as the passive observer, he nearly went crazy. The minutes it took for Dr. Buchanan and the nurses to insert the chest tube and get Spike stabilized seemed to stretch on for hours, and were still playing on repeat in his mind.

"All right," Ed eased, drawing Greg away from his thoughts and back into the conversation. "How bad is it?"

Dr. Traver, although not quite as morose as before, still was not his normal pleasant self. "Well, the collapsed lung is definitely going to be a problem. Spike's ribs and skull are healing very well and we were hoping that after a few days off the oxygen resting at home we'd be able to start sending him to PT a few times a week. The sooner he gets back into using his arm, the better. Also, we still need to gage how much, if any, damage was dealt to the nerves during the break." He shook his head, looking more forlorn. "It was a judgment call - the decision of when to take him off the oxygen, that is. We administered a chest x-ray, and it looked good - but realistically, no medical test is one hundred percent accurate."

Dr. Traver stopped talking, evidently realizing he was rambling. The two men weren't interested in medical procedure; they were just concerned about their colleague - their friend.

"In the morning Spike is going to go back into surgery to re-inflate the collapsed lung. This is a really simple procedure," Traver explained. "A balloon will be pumped into the lung to open it up, and a tube will be inserted into the balloon to circulate oxygen, essentially manually breathing for him. It'll have to stay in for a few weeks though."

Suddenly a thought came to Greg as he felt the clammy hand he still held in his own. "Doctor, what about his fever?"

Dr. Traver frowned before saying, "Well, it could have simply been induced by exhaustion. When we took him off the oxygen, Spike's body may have just overexerted itself, weakening the immune system. It would have happened very quickly, but it's not impossible."

Ed could tell there was something else Traver was considering. "Or…?" he lead.

"Or…there's an infection," Traver told them. "But that's a worst-case scenario, and even then it's something we can manage. If his fever doesn't go down tonight with the help of the cold packs, it's probably an internal infection from the surgery. We'll just start him on antibiotics and that'll take care of it. He'll feel bad for a few days, but he'll be as good as new after that."

Finally, some good news. At long last there was an end in sight. Just a little more time, a little more patience, and Spike would be whole again. Their team would be okay. They just had to endure. It was going to be okay.

_It's gonna be okay._

Little did Greg and Ed know, someone else had very different plans in mind for their broken little family. As the man watching outside in the shadows moved away from the door to steal down the hallway, he couldn't stop the cruel leer from creeping onto his face.

It would all be over soon.

[…]

Ooh, what a twist! I hope it was worth the wait. We finally found us some plotline!

Since I know there's a fair percentage of you reading just to hear the funny stories about my mother, I'll leave you with the nicknames she's given to Team One:

Greg (her favorite character) is Papa Bear.

Ed (her least favorite character) is Drama Gnome.

Spike is Angsty Puppy.

Sam is Kandahar Ken (think: Malibu Barbie).

Jules will forever be Kimberly in her eyes.

Wordy is Dirty Wordy, the Entry Specialist.

Leah is Bitch Leah.

Winnie is Mrs. Scarlatti.

And finally, brace yourselves…

Lou's nickname is Debris.

D:


End file.
